What did the puffball say to the tiny toadstool? (You're a fun guy!)

 I cannot account for my obsession but, over the years, it has simply mushroomed out of control.

Somehow, to my utter delight, my yard plays host to Calvatia gigantea (giant puffball mushrooms) and I maniacally monitor their safety and well-being over the course of their growth period.

This year, we were blessed with three.

I would mark my little baby belugas with orange traffic cones to alert my lawn maintenance man of their presence. 

I lovingly tracked their growth progress and shared daily updates with my family across the country. I considered live-streaming the mushrooms but my kids insisted that they really looked forward to the newsletters.

They just make me happy.  Good days or bad, I would sit reflectively by my baby balls of mozzarella and just reflect. "Where are you?" Brad asked as I chatted with him over the phone. "Home," I answered. "But I just heard a tractor go by. Are you outside?" he inquired, puzzled. His wife was NOT an outdoor gal. "I'm sitting by my puffball," I explained. "Oh. Of course," he said, mystery solved.

For the betterment of education, I decided to donate one of my babies to my classroom so we could scientifically chronicle the decomposition of the mushroom. We used sensory observation to describe the puffball...stroking its smooth exterior, thumping it carefully...observing as its milky white color began to yellow...smelling its earthy aroma until a week later...the smell forced us to re-locate it to the courtyard where we'd peek out the window at it and visit it after lunch. A new student enrolled during this process...the poor kid could not initially understand why we were so excited to race out to look at, touch, and smell a shriveling up, spongy-textured fungus but, eventually, he got on board. 

The pay-off was HUGE on the day "it" was ready! The next stage of our scientific inquiry was to witness the spore dispersal. One lucky student was chosen to leap onto our puffball; disappearing magically as he unleashed a brownish-green cloud. Excited shrieks filled the courtyard before we traipsed back into Room 14 to journal our experience.

It had been gratifying to donate one of my precious puffballs to such a meaningful academic endeavor. Besides, I still had two puffball pals with which to commune.

Until...

Brad and I had been wrestling the cover on our boat...an activity that really showcases our marital harmony...when an unfamiliar truck pulled up and a man walked towards us. 

"I noticed your puffballs," he said, upon his approach. (Yes, I realize in a different situation, this could come off as quite the suggestive pick-up line...get your minds out of the gutter!) I shot my husband a look. I knew we should have built a protective fence around them. For goodness sake...they were so big at this point, you could see them from space. I had been warning Brad for WEEKS that we were just setting ourselves up for an eventual puffball abduction.  I did not respond in a neighborly fashion. "Yeah?" I said, wishing I had some chewing tobacco so I could spit casually on the ground in a threatening manner. "Do you like them?" he asked. What a stupid question. Before I could rudely snap at this stranger, Brad intervened, explaining, that, yes, his wife was quite fond of them. Clearly disappointed, the man nodded. "My family loves to eat them. They are a rare treat." He thanked us before heading back to his truck. 

Brad looked at me.

I sighed. And then went after the man and led him to my precious puffballs. (Stop giggling. Immature.)

He was appropriately awe-struck, exclaiming over their size, texture, and milky-white color. This was a man who clearly appreciated puffballs. (Stop. It.) I graciously (outwardly, at least) offered him the smaller of the two remaining mushrooms.

And then there was one.

How I treasured each moment.

But, alas, time is fleeting and, too soon, it was time for my puffball to move on.

I raced home from school on that warm October day...pulled on my tall muck boots and stood, for the last time, next to my mini-moon. Brad stood by, ready with the camera. We waited for traffic to go by before I made one small leap for womankind. Suddenly, a van pulled up. "Whatcha doin' Mrs. Mosiman?" yelled the teen-age driver, a former student. He was ferrying his younger siblings home. I waved to El, whom I had had last year. 

Brad looked at me.

I sighed. And, in the name of education, took a leap...and unleashed a torrent of tiny spores that will hopefully take root in my yard again next fall. The van erupted in applause and I laughed in my lawn, tromping through the remains...ripped pieces of attic insulation...each releasing mini-mushroom clouds.  

When the air cleared, I took a deep breath, waving as my audience drove away. 

"That was fun," Brad said, smiling as I surveyed our now empty lawn. I nodded, a little sad. "It's hard to see them go," I told him, "because they took up so mush-room in my heart."